Day 8 anna kiss

yeastie beasties

i have no discipline.

i consume what i desire
asking no questions
and giving no answers
i care not if my veins are
primed with lard,
if my lungs blacken
if my breasts catch on fire
and tiny organisms eat me
from the inside out.

let the tissue and muscle
fall off
in huge bloodied chunks,
my meaty insides
rotted green and weeping
flesh oozing pus

let my brain fall to pieces
my wisdom and
ability to reason
drained away.
let me be
lost for logic

what is here for disintegration
does not amount
to much anyway
the body is
so small
and so frail
and so
designed for this destruction.
i am made for mangling.

nothing heaves and sighs
or wears out
it is the twig made for snapping
and so it would seem
that even the most
microscopic of villains
is able
to exact
this execution.

2 new poems

Feb. 6 While He Slept

she held his hand
in a way she hadn't before
not like this before

she took it in both her long-
fingered hands
studied the length of
his fingers, the design
of the palm
the whiteness of nails
against the tanned skin

he didn't flinch
he didn't move away
he didn't pull back
unaware of her presence
his discomfort didn't
visit him

she got brave
kissed each finger
then ran them, interlaced
through the fence of her own
spread of fingers

still he didn't move
laid still as a bear
asleep for the duration
of the season

so deep in sleep was he
she vacillated between
attempting to wake him
and allowing the night to pass
undisturbed

she revelled in this
time of peace
she silently chose
not to be the one to
end it.

Feb. 7th What Is Not

this is not a poem about the war in Iraq
this is not a poem about political platforms
or who the next preseidnet might be
this is not a poem about foreclosure
this is not a poem about Wall Street
it is not about recession
it is not about stem cell research
this is not a poem about abortion
this is not a poem about abstinence
this is not a poem about a patriarchal society
this is not a pome about Britney Spears or
Hollywood starlets with
substance abuse problems
this is not a poem about the weather
this is not about China or
the products that are made there
this is not a poem that will ever make news.
karen saint

Day 7 anna kiss

nur ow

all night long
we roll in opposite directions,
his hands grope
open, shut, pull
in half-sleep
he whines, whimpers
rests
tries again
cries out.

deep within my dream
i hear the tug
on my arm,
tightly turn away into bedding
protecting
my pinkened nipples
from his torturous sigh

eventually
we are both
pulled far enough
from sleep
that i bitterly roll over,
gasp at touches,
grit teeth,
growl at him
as he rubs his eyes,
his frown opened with a wail
then part my shirt
and pull out the
lesser of two burned breasts.

Poems February 4th and 5th

February 4th Late Poem

he points out Orion's Belt
his arm, torso
he finds the north star
another galaxy
another sun
another solar system
all at a very safe distance

she reaches out to love
He says "I love you" and
pushes her back
down on the ground
says "I love you" and
leaves her in a heap
a crumpled leaf on the curb

she thinks he rules
the sun and the moon and
every star in the sky
he says "I love you"
and pushes her farther away

she wonders
what kind of mother
rejects her own son?
_____________________________________________________
February 5th Satellite Boy on Fat Tuesday

sing-screams Billy Joe
across a wind-filled courtyard
in southern suburban sprawl
and the old floridians
come out to dance.

______________________________________________________

by karen saint

Day 6 anna kiss

my overtired limbs
lay limp at my side
the list-making and
frantic rush for
dominion over dirt
have exhausted me.

my cheeks hang sallow
at the sides of my frown
the eyes drip
downward

the hand slows
the movement of words
across pages,
coming finally
at the period,
to a rest.

Day 5 anna kiss

super fantastic huge-ass tuesday

I stroke the pots,
scrub the ladle,
watch the shine
brighten,
the hot water swirl
white with suds

it is a meditation-
the ceaseless
circular
scrub

quietude lurks in
the rush of water
and the heat
steamed up the kitchen

there is space enough
for hiding
within the fog
of domesticity
where I needn’t bother
being anyone
to anyone

I can drift
inside
and stand
ignored
and pretend
for a moment
that I am elsewhere.

three days worth from natasha

which face?

again, the voices
disagree-
open the cage
or pour the honey?
after a long silence
either action will
wound.
which voice speaks
for me? which face
will suit?

--

son

little explosions
mark his passage
feet aggressively
pounding the ground
rattling furniture and
dust-covered baubles
primitive structure
of language and form
carefully chosen words
and a smile, to tell
us stories of tiny
moons in juice or
big noodles
he turns us
into mirrors, he
makes us plants.

--

haiku

there are no words now
traffic noise and wind are all
sunday after noon.